


The Shed in the Wood

by LoveChilde



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BDSM, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Male Slash, OT3, Pre-Series, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:46:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1896174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveChilde/pseuds/LoveChilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt over on http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/- in short, Athos has a huge spanking kink, but is afraid to admit this to his lovers, Porthos and Aramis. When they find out, they decide to give him a night (in this case, a day) he won't forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shed in the Wood

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: OT3 have been together some months in a happy, affectionate relationship. They've already tried out Porthos and Aramis' fantasies but Athos refuses to ask for anything outside the (admittedly amazing) sex they're already having.
> 
> This is because Athos has a massive kink for being punished. He wants to be spanked, scolded, treated roughly and generally punished until he's a sobbing, sticky mess. However, he's convinced that if he tells his lovers this they will brand him some kind of pervert or think this fantasy is a twisted result of all the other issues in his life.
> 
> Eventually, he lets it slip while drunk and Porthos and Aramis are most assuredly not horrified. They decide to give Athos a night to remember.
> 
> A/N: Set before the show starts, to avoid D’Artagnan-shaped inconveniences. Porthos and Aramis don’t know that Athos is a count yet, or about Milady. I'm afraid I've drawn rather heavily on characterization from the books as well as from the show. Unbeta'ed, all mistakes are my own. OP, I hope this satisfies!

"I'm telling you, he's keeping something from us." Porthos scooped up dice from the table and threw them with a casual snap of the wrist. 

Across from him, Aramis inclined his head to study the dice as they fell, and shrugged, both at the comment and at the result of the throw. "Athos has many secrets. We all do, and we don't pry. His business is his own."

"Not when it's business that has to do with us," Porthos looked around carefully, but nobody seemed to be eavesdropping on their game. "There's something we aren't doing right. Or not enough of, or something like that." He stared at the dice and huffed in irritation. "I hate feeling inadequate, Aramis."

"I haven't heard any complaints, from him or from any of us. Our- sword-work- is excellent." Aramis paused, briefly but meaningfully, before using the agreed term for the relationship the three Musketeers enjoyed. While it was true that certain parts of it did involve actual swords and combat training, rather a lot of their 'training' involved no swords- at least none made of steel- and very few clothes. They had to be discreet, of course; sodomy was a crime punishable by death, and a sin in the eyes of the church, besides, but they managed reasonably well, in snatched evenings here and there. It helped that they were known to be inseparable, and that Treville regularly sent them on missions together. 

Porthos huffed again. "No complaints," He agreed, "But no cheers, either. We...don't impress him, Aramis. We've never...He doesn't relax." He was clearly struggling to find the right words, and Aramis refrained from helping him, since he wasn’t sure just what Porthos meant. “He doesn’t let go.”

“Let go of what? It’s Athos, he’s so self-controlled it’s almost infuriating. Even when he drinks, he’s cool as a cucumber.” If anything, Athos became harder and colder when he drank. Sometimes it made Aramis wonder, but most of the time he was content to allow his friend his secrets. “What would you rather he did? Scream?”

“Well, yes, for a start.” Risky words, but innocent enough to a casual listener. Aramis still glared at Porthos for his recklessness, and the larger man growled.

“Fine. This conversation isn’t over, let’s take it somewhere private.”

Athos had sentry duty that night, and they didn’t. Unsurprisingly, after Porthos and Aramis got to their quarters, any kind of conversation was abandoned for a while in favor of more pleasant activities, but eventually, when they were both tangled in sheets and drowsy, Porthos started again. 

“I don’t like being inadequate, Aramis. We have to find out what we’re doing wrong.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?” Aramis glared at him again. “What will you do? Ask? He’d never tell you.” 

“Then I’ll have to be devious, won’t I?” Porthos seemed so determined- and was so terrible at deviousness, that Aramis burst out laughing and the conversation devolved into a miniature wrestling match as Porthos tried to silence him by main force. Aramis was quite sure the subject wouldn’t come up again, and tried to put it out of mind.

He couldn’t, though. Because once Porthos pointed out, Aramis started noticing it, himself, and he prided himself on being more observant than Porthos was. There was something missing, somewhere in their relationship. And if Athos was unsatisfied, the other two knew they needed to Do Something About It.

Theirs was an easy, comfortable relationship, born of long familiarity, fire-forged camaraderie and shared attraction. All three of them had the occasional affair with a woman, here and there, but there was very little jealousy, a little teasing, at most, because all three of them knew they’d return, eventually, to the comfortable and the familiar. The beloved, although none of them would admit _that_ even under torture. Between the three of them, they could feel safe, count on complete discretion and trust, indulge in little preferences without fear of mockery or disgust. It was a haven in a harsh world, and Porthos and Aramis agreed, without speaking of it, that if it wasn’t so for Athos, then it was a problem that needed resolving, and soon. 

So Aramis started looking more carefully. Porthos was looking as well, but it was a matter of pride for Aramis to figure it out first, since he’d missed it before. And the more he looked, the more he noticed.

Aramis noticed, for example, the way Athos liked it when Porthos took control in bed, overpowered them both physically, on the rare occasions that either one of them were held down. He noticed that Athos looked peaceful, almost resigned, when the three of them indulged Aramis’s preference for worshipping them as he worshipped God- on his knees, with his mouth and with lavish, tender words of praise- or Porthos’ fondness for chasing them around the room a few times before lovemaking, simulating a hunt, but never voiced a request of his own. The sex was always good- excellent, even- but Athos always seemed to go with whatever they wanted, pleased to please them without asking them to do anything they did not first offer to do. The few times Porthos bluntly asked him what he wanted, Athos evaded and deflected, distracting them by dragging them both back to bed, or by finding a reason to leave. Eventually, Porthos stopped asking. 

The final clue came quite unexpectedly one day, when they rode past the barracks of the common palace soldiers, after a long and harrowing week of securing a round of ambassadorial visits for the King’s birthday, most of it spent narrowly avoiding skirmishes with the Cardinal’s men. It was a Saturday, and the whipping post had been set up and was occupied by some hapless young man who’d committed some minor infraction. Aramis saw how Athos’s gaze was drawn to the construction, to the crowd around it. How his eyes settled on the many-tailed whip in the sergeant's hand, ready to deliver just punishment. He looked at the whip, and at the soldier, screaming and writhing against the post, and his eyes were longing, almost hungry. Aramis took note. 

“We need to get Athos drunk tonight.” He told Porthos as they reached their quarters. Fortunately, they had Saturday and Sunday off, after being on duty for days with very little sleep, and Aramis had a chance to enact his plan- if he could formulate one in time. 

“Getting Athos to drink isn’t hard.” 

“Not get him to drink. Get him drunk. Really drunk, drunk enough that he’ll talk more than he wants to. Maybe he’ll finally tell us what’s bothering him.” He could extrapolate, from the evidence on hand, generally what Athos might have in mind, but not, for example, what side of the lash he’d wish to be on. That would require some more delicate probing. 

“Ah.” Porthos took this in, and grunted. “Gonna be expensive.” 

He wasn’t wrong. It took more than one evening of letting Athos drink as much as he wanted, and dealing with his moodiness the morning after, before any headway was made in finding out what was wrong. The hardest part of it, for both Porthos and Aramis, was staying mostly sober, themselves, so they’d remember if Athos gave anything away at some point. At first they tried to take turns, but one of them not drinking while the other two did turned out to be even worse than both of them drinking less, and anyway, Athos seemed oblivious to the whole plan. As it was, Aramis almost missed the slip when it finally happened.

They’d had, to put it bluntly, a hellish week. Another round of ambassadorial talks, standing guard for hours, bored out of their minds, and then escorting the ambassadors on their way out of Paris. Foreign dignitaries were touchy, volatile creatures, and the Musketeers had all been on edge all week, too aware that their own honor and the honor of France were reflected in any incautious step, every slipped word. And of course, some of the younger Musketeers, having walked on eggshells the whole week, got a little too rowdy as soon as they went off-duty, and decided to drink where they were likely to meet Church soldiers. Inevitably, a brawl ensued, and by the time the older Musketeers got there, the damage was already done- both Musketeers and Red Guards bruised and bloodied, one Guard with a broken arm, and a Musketeer who had to be carried away by his friends with a head wound streaming blood down his face. They’d all made a spectacle of themselves, again, and Treville was far from pleased. They lined up before him, silent and mortified, to face his wrath.

“You are the King’s Musketeers, not common brawlers! You hold the pride and honor of France in your hands, and you drag it through mud! Shame on you all, gentlemen. I am deeply ashamed.” Treville’s face was pale with fury, his voice tight and low, promising grave consequences. “If you were anybody else, I’d line you all up at the whipping post. But you are Musketeers, and gentlemen, and right now, you are all a disgrace to your uniforms. Get out of my sight, while I think of some appropriate way to teach you discipline.” 

They slunk away, metaphorical tails tucked between their legs, and Athos, Porthos and Aramis returned to their quarters, where Porthos had cups fulls of wine before any of them had a chance to take their boots off. Knowing that they hadn’t been involved in the brawl personally, Porthos had regained his good spirits almost as soon as they’d left the training yard, and Aramis never let a scolding, undeserved as it was, bother him for long, but Athos seemed to be walking under a cloud, even more than usual. He drank twice as much as the other two did together, and they made no attempt to slow him down. Maybe, with the stress of the day fueled by alcohol, Athos would finally tell them what he wanted, what he needed from them.

It was very late at night, with several empty bottles on the table, and Aramis was half asleep. Athos was staring at the fire, no longer drinking, his eyes distant. When he spoke, Aramis barely heard him at first. 

“What was that?”

“I said,” Athos repeated, slow and quiet, “that it’s unfair.”

“What is?” Porthos sat up, and Aramis prodded himself to full awareness. 

“This. What happened today.”

“The Red Guards are idiots. It’s not news.” Porthos shrugged, and Athos shook his head once. 

“Not that. This- the part where we get in trouble, again, and the Captain can’t even shout at us properly because we are ‘Musketeers and gentlemen’.” there was a dark, mocking emphasis on the words. “We’re untouchable. All we can do is frustrate and anger him, and we never- we never-” He stalled, and shook his head again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Sounds like it does.” Aramis made a welcoming gesture with the hand not holding a cup. “Keep going.”

Athos closed his eyes and drained his cup. Porthos refilled it without saying anything. “Things were simpler when we were younger, weren’t they?” His eyes were still closed, so the other two didn’t bother to nod in agreement. “We made mistakes, and we paid for them, didn’t we? I mean, I assume we all did. Were you ever whipped as a child, Porthos?”

Porthos thought back to his childhood at the Court of Miracles and smiled sourly, “More than I care to remember.”

“Yes, well, there is that.” Athos nodded, “But it was simple. Make a mistake, take the beating, go on with life. And then it all got...complicated.” He waved a hand vaguely, wine sloshing in his cup. “When I was fourteen, my tutor whipped me. He always had me cut my own switches, and it was worse if they weren’t good enough, and it always hurt, but it felt good, too. It felt right. And- I got hard.” 

Aramis had a feeling that if any of them moved, Athos would stop now and deny this ever happened. He motioned for Porthos to stay absolutely still.

“My tutor went to my father to tell him, of course. He was shocked, disgusted- and my father dismissed him on the spot, and yelled at him for daring to raise a hand to a-” he stalled, some secrets too ingrained in him to be revealed, even when drunk and rambling, “a gentleman’s son. That I was above such vulgar punishment. And that was the last of it. I was a gentleman, and after that, when I made mistakes, when I make mistakes now, either there are no consequences and we get off with a pretense of a scolding, or somebody dies, or gets terribly hurt. One or the other, and there’s no middle ground. It’s not fair.” He put his cup down and rested his head on his folded arms on the table. “Some days, I wish I wasn’t a gentleman or a Musketeer, but a common soldier tied to the whipping post. To feel that peace again, like I did when I was young. To feel like I did when my tutor took a switch to me.” He trailed off into silence, and after several moments added, “A silly dream.”

“Not so silly.” Aramis said gently, “And not so unreachable, as dreams go.” Porthos raised both eyebrows in startled curiosity, but Aramis hushed him with a gesture again. “Athos, if that’s what you want, we can do that.” 

“We can?” Silencing gestures were clearly useless, it turned out, and Aramis scowled at Porthos when he asked the question. “Aw, don’t look at me like that. Athos can’t hear me.” He pointed at their friend and lover, who was snoring quietly, having dozed off about as soon as he’d finished talking. Aramis sighed. 

“Very well. Help me get him to bed. Then, we will talk.” 

***  
Between them, they heaved Athos into bed and made sure he was still breathing steadily. It wasn’t often he drank himself into a stupor, but when he did, he didn’t cut any corners. It was a good thing they had the next day off, too. 

“Now.” Porthos sat back down, looking decidedly grumpy. “Let’s talk about you making promises we don’t know we can keep.”

“Why would we not keep it?” Aramis challenged. “It’s hardly more than you’d normally be willing to do for a friend; the danger is minimal.”

“There are things I’d be willing to do _for_ a friend, not _to_ a friend. And besides, you’re wrong. It can be quite dangerous. What if somebody saw, or heard?”

“We’ll go out of the city for a day.” The barracks were the worst places to seek privacy of any kind, but they had other options. 

“What if we hurt him bad enough that somebody’d notice? I’ve seen people flogged, Aramis- it’s not pretty.” Porthos was truly worried, remembering various incidents throughout his youth. “People can be crippled by it- maimed for life.”

“Yes, they can, but that’s not what we’ll do. For God’s sake, Porthos, we won’t just tie him to a post and go at him with a metal-tipped martinet.” Aramis shook his head, startled by the strength of Porthos’ reaction. “We both know enough to be careful. Neither one of us wants to hurt him, do we? This isn’t revenge, or hatred, or even anger.”

“If it isn’t any of those, then why should we hit him? I- I don’t hit people for fun. And not with a whip, either. If I want to fight, I use my hands, or a sword.” Porthos was still struggling with the whole idea. Whipping was for horses, dogs, children and slaves, and Athos wasn’t any of those. “He hasn’t even done anything he should be punished for, he’s almost annoyingly good, sometimes.” 

“As far as you know, maybe. And maybe he thinks differently, and maybe he just likes the idea of it, and the feeling of it. I’ve had a few acquaintances in the clergy who enjoyed some flagellation on occasion, solitary or in groups. A friend of mine said that the whip is like a broom for the dark corners of the soul.” Aramis shrugged. “If it makes him happy, I’m willing to at least try, Porthos. If he trusts us enough to let us help him with it, we should feel honored. You’re the one who said he’s never screamed for us, and never really let go of his control- maybe this is what he needs for that to happen.” 

“I don’t know.” Porthos sighed. “I’m not sure how I feel about it. But Athos- he deserves to be happy as much as any of us, I guess. We can try. But we’ll have to be really careful. We can’t hurt him enough that he won’t be fit for duty, somebody’ll notice. Nothing that’ll scar, either.” 

“Whoa, whoa-” Aramis held up both hands. “No scarring. Nothing like a criminal’s punishment. Think schoolboy, instead.” 

“I’ve never been a schoolboy, Aramis, I barely know what that means,” Porthos huffed. It was a whole world he was still hanging on the edge of, the respectable, gentile lives most Musketeers had before they joined up, where a whipping was a child’s worry, rather than a grown man’s fear. “I’ll just follow your lead, shall I? You like it when we do that.” Indeed, Aramis often took the lead in bed, and the other two were content to let him. It made everything simpler. Aramis grinned, quick and bright, and leaned across the table to kiss Porthos hard. 

“Trust me. We will do our best to make Athos happy.” He drew back and glanced at their sleeping friend, “Assuming he doesn’t deny everything when he wakes up, of course.”

***  
In the morning, Athos was hung over, sullen and quiet and wouldn’t look at either of them, so Aramis was reasonably sure that he remembered everything he’d confessed the previous evening. Shortly after he woke up he removed himself to the training yard and attacked the training dummies with a viciousness that drove the younger recruits to scatter, leaving him alone, where usually at least three of them would be pestering him to teach them a specialized move or give them some pointers. Today, they left him alone. 

As he slashed at the wood-and-leather targets over and over, Athos fumed, mostly as himself, but also at Aramis and Porthos. How could he be so stupid as to give away his secrets for the price of two bottles of wine? How could they be so callous as to let him expose himself like that- weren’t friends supposed to protect each other, even from themselves? He couldn’t imagine what they thought of him now, and frankly, he didn’t care to try. He hadn’t waited to see the revulsion and pity in their eyes, and with luck, he’d be able to ignore the whole thing tomorrow, as if it had never been said, or laugh it off as drunken foolishness. They were his closest friends, his confidants, his lovers; he couldn’t stand the thought of losing their respect and love over his own foolish, selfish desires. 

Athos couldn’t remember when he’d first noticed that being whipped gave him as much pleasure as it did pain. He’d been young- ten or eleven at most, only just becoming aware of what men and women did together, and of his own body as potentially participating in that kind of thing, and until that final time, he never really connected the thrill and the sense of peace and well-being that followed punishment with anything sexual. He didn’t seek beatings, didn’t go out of his way to invite them- they still hurt, and he’d been mindful of other people’s opinion of him even as a child, and wanted his tutors to like and respect him. Still, he could not deny that he’d been left with a longing for that sense of peace and happiness from his youth, that nothing else could quite produce, in his adult life. 

He paused briefly to exchange his practice sabre for one that wasn’t about to break. It seemed his attacks on the dummy were as damaging to the sword as to the target, and he tried to focus and calm himself, distance himself from the worry over his friends’ reaction. It was harder than he expected, though; he imagined the ridicule, the pitying looks, the teasing, and his gut churned. Twenty years, and he’d never told anybody. He’d considered telling Anne, for a while, during the first passionate months of their marriage. She was supposed to be his better half, after all, and he’d had no doubts that she could give him what he yearned for, but he hadn’t told her. It didn’t feel right, a wife having that much power over her husband, and he hadn’t wanted her to think he was weak, or perverted somehow. Given what he knew about her now, he couldn’t help but wonder whether even then, he’d known not to trust her with his soul like that.

Thinking of his late wife turned his swordwork both messier and more violent, and finally the training dummy tipped over with a resounding crack, as the pole that carried it broke under the strain. Athos stood, chest heaving, sword hanging from his hand as he surveyed the damage. 

“Well done. You’ve killed the training target.” Athos whirled around, raising his sword, before he registered that it was Aramis behind him. Porthos was at his side, both looking like it was a perfectly ordinary day. “You win.”  
“Shut up,” Athos replied without heat. Maybe if he didn’t act awkward, the others wouldn’t, either. Turning his back on the others, he walked across the training yard to put the sword in the pile for servants to clean and repair, and hefted the broken training dummy to join the pile of damaged equipment. 

“Are you about done training?” Aramis asked when Athos had run out of tasks to distract himself with, “Because we’d like to go.”

“Go where?” Athos asked, immediately suspicious. Aramis shrugged and pointed at Porthos. 

“One of Porthos’ lady friends has a hunting lodge she isn’t using, out of town, and Treville said that we’re on leave until tomorrow afternoon, as long as he knows where we can be reached in an emergency. So we’re taking the day off, and you’re coming with us.”

“I’d really rather not.” Athos kept his voice steady and neutral, but it took some effort. “You go on, though, you deserve the rest.”

“I wasn’t asking, Athos, I was telling you that you’re coming with us.” Aramis advanced, and Athos forced himself not to back away. “You’ll thank us later, trust me.” His hand gripped Athos’ upper arm, in what would have looked to any casual onlooker as a friendly tug, but had Aramis full strength behind it, a hard enough grip that Athos almost staggered. “Not. Asking.” It was a low growl, and it went straight to Athos’ groin. “Come along. We’ll even pack lunch to eat on the way.” 

Clearly, there was no point arguing the matter further, and Athos capitulated while he still had some dignity left. Shortly after, they were all riding towards the nearest city gate. Athos said nothing, but his stomach was twisting around itself with worry. What the hell did Aramis have in mind, that required leaving the city? Surely it couldn’t be sex, not after the embarrassing revelations of the previous night. Every other option included mockery and rejection- did they want the freedom to say things that would be too indiscreet to express in Paris, where any corner could hide a listener? Taking up a hunting lodge only in order to reject him seemed excessive though, didn’t it? His thoughts ran in circles, with nothing to reassure him he was wrong. 

After something like half an hour of this, Porthos signaled for them to stop, and glared at Aramis. “Will you explain where we’re going, Aramis? For Athos’ peace of mind, if nothing else. Look at him, he’s actually scared of- something. Of us, maybe. Tell him he has no reason to be, because maybe he’ll listen to you.” He turned his glare on Athos, doing nothing to reassure him, “Stop worrying. You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m not worried.” Athos lied valiantly, “And I’m definitely not scared of either of you.” 

“I want to believe you, but I don’t.” Porthos replied calmly. “Aramis, tell him.”

Aramis shrugged, “What can I tell him that I haven’t said already? We’re going to spend some time relaxing in a nice, remote location where nobody can see or hear us, and we can get some rest. It’s all very simple.” 

“Alright, now _I’m_ worried,” Porthos shook his head. “What Aramis means to say is that whatever you’re worried about, you can stop.”

“I’m not worried.” Athos repeated, although Aramis’ words hadn’t calmed him in any way. “Really, you can stop trying to help, because you’re not.” 

“Fine. Have it your way, then.” With a shrug of his own, Porthos nudged his horse back into motion, and they rode in silence for another hour until they reached the lodge. It was more a hut that a full-sized hunting lodge, a smallish brick building, half meant for the use of humans and half for horses, well-built but almost empty of furniture. After they stabled the horses, the three men went inside to find a single large room, holding only a wooden table and several chairs, with a smaller room off to the side, which contained a large bedstead 

“It’s mostly meant for very small hunting parties.” Porthos explained, “Rarely more than two or three people, you see, and a few servants. Sometimes, they even make do without the servants.” 

“On those occasions, I’m not sure they hunt deer or rabbits.” Aramis commented and studied the large fireplace. “But we should be comfortable enough here.” They stood for a moment in silence, until Athos’ patience gave out- much faster than it normally would have, but he’d spent the morning tying himself in knots, and the uncertainty was driving him to distraction.

“Very well. You’ve brought me here, now say what you have to say.” He braced himself, preparing for the worst.

“I suppose we can stop hedging, now we’re in private.” Aramis nodded. “About what you said last night-”

“Whatever I said,” Athos cut him off, “I was drunk, and tired, and didn’t mean any of it. You can disregard it.” He clenched his jaw, “I would- appreciate it- if you disregarded anything I said.” 

“We could.” Aramis nodded. “But if this is something you want, we can also do it, and see how it goes.”

This, Athos hadn’t expected, and for a moment he stared at Aramis, mouth slightly open, shocked. Aramis hadn’t sounded disgusted, or mocking. Athos turned to look at Porthos, who shrugged and nodded.

“If it makes you happy. We want you to be happy, Athos. If that’s what you want, that’s what will make you happy...we’ll do it.”

For several seconds, Athos found he couldn’t breathe at all. He couldn’t believe that the people closest to him would offer him this- and he wasn’t sure whether this disbelief was because he didn’t deserve to have his fantasies fulfilled, or because he didn’t believe they’d be willing to actually hurt him, no matter how much he wanted them to. Possibly it was both. He made several false starts before he finally managed to speak. “Y-you will?” He cleared his throat and pulled himself together with a mental jerk, and forced himself to incline his head, just low enough to indicate a polite refusal. “I thank you for the offer, but I wouldn’t ask it of you. I don’t- don’t want it. Not really. I can manage well enough without.” He forced a chuckle, sounding tired to his own ears, “I have for years now.”

“You can manage without, but why should you?” Aramis asked simply, and Athos couldn’t answer. He couldn’t stand there and say out loud that his desires were wrong. It would be too much to bear, to have to admit it to his friends- especially when he only half-believed it, himself. Aramis crossed the distance between them in a few swift steps, motioning to Porthos as he went, and pulled Athos by the collar until he was close enough to kiss. 

It was a long, slow, tender kiss. Aramis felt arms going around his back, and knew Porthos was behind Athos, hugging them both. They held both the kiss and the embrace until Athos finally relaxed into it and started kissing Aramis back, and only let go when air became an issue. 

“Now.” Aramis said. They were practically nose to nose, and he could see the uncertainty, fear and hope in Athos’ eyes. “It’s up to you. We could spend the day resting, fucking, eating, doing whatever we like, and go back to Paris tomorrow. Or, we can give you what you want, because you are our friend, and we want you to be happy.” He backed away until they were too far apart to touch even with a stretched-out hand. “If you’re willing to trust us with this, if you’re willing to let us help you like that- then you can go outside, right now, and cut a few switches for yourself,” He paused, as Athos’ eyes opened wide and his breath hitched, “ _Boy_.”

Athos’ breath stuttered again, and his closed his eyes slowly, his expression almost pained with longing. “Right now?”

“Right now.” Aramis confirmed. “And when you return with them, you won’t be a gentleman and a Musketeer anymore. You’ll be a young man who’s been very naughty, and who is in a world of trouble, and we will both treat you accordingly. It might end up being quite rough on you.” He raised his eyes slightly to catch Porthos’ gaze, which was starting to look a bit overwhelmed by all these promises Aramis was making in both their names, and hoped that his ‘don’t interfere’ message got through. “If at any point it gets too much, or you think you’ve had enough, all you need to say is ‘Paris’, and we’ll stop.”

“Paris?” Again, any signals were completely lost on Porthos, and Athos turned to look at him as if he’d quite forgotten the third Musketeer was there. “What’s wrong with him saying ‘stop’ if he wants us to stop?”

“Because I want to make sure he really, truly wants us to stop.” Aramis explained. He remembered his own youth, and the tendency to start begging whoever was beating him to stop, well before he reached the limits of his tolerance, just in case his punisher was convinced and let him off more easily. “With a different word, there can be no mistake.”

Porthos, who remembered similar scenarios from his own childhood, nodded. “Makes sense. Alright.” He looked at Athos seriously, “So, you’re alright with all this? You want it?”

Athos still couldn’t quite find the words. He’d been hard since Aramis had called him ‘boy’, and his leather breeches were getting tighter and more uncomfortable even as the conversation became more interesting. He nodded once, cautious still, then again, more firmly. Porthos nodded back.

“So go cut some switches. And make them good, solid ones, don’t make us send you back out to get more.” Porthos exchanged a glance with Aramis to make sure he was in the right direction with the instructions, and the other man nodded in confirmation. “Go on. Quickly, boy.” As strange as it was to call Athos, who as far as Porthos knew was a few years his elder and definitely his social superior, ‘boy’, the look on Athos’ face made it clear this was the right choice of words. “Leave your sword here, but take the knife.” Porthos added helpfully. Athos obeyed quickly, fingers fumbling at his sword-belt buckle and letting it drop to the floor with a clatter. 

“Pick that up.” Aramis snapped, his voice harsh enough that both Athos and Porthos jumped. “Being out of the barracks is no excuse for making a mess. We are guests here. Now get out before I decide to warm you up with that belt first.”

Athos actually dropped the belt twice before he managed to drape it over the back of a chair and scramble out of the room towards the wood outside. Porthos waited until they heard him moving away through the brush before letting out an explosive breath.

“You’re not playing games, are you Aramis? Wanna update me, so I don’t screw up your scenario?” He’d never seen Athos this off-balance; it was an intriguing experience. 

“Yes, yes, sorry I sprang it on you like that. I was hoping I’d have time to explain further, but I figured if we started, he’d have less time to second-guess himself and find reasons not to do this.” They hadn’t had time to go over his plan earlier, as Porthos had gone to arrange the loan of the lodge with his widow friend. “You saw his face, Porthos- he really, truly wants this. He’s just been too stubborn and proud to tell us. So giving him a chance to back out was a bad idea.”

“I suppose so, yes. I still don’t get it, but if that’s what he wants…” Porthos shrugged. “So, what do you want me to do? I’m guessing you’ll do most of the talking? I’m not sure I’m comfortable with yelling at Athos when I’m not even angry with him.”

“Alright, so you can be the silently angry one,” Aramis agreed. “I was thinking I’d use the switches. Would you prefer to use something else, or sit this one out entirely? I might need a hand holding him down, at the least, although I’ve packed some rope.” 

“Rope? Mother of God, Aramis, we’re not going to tie him up.” Porthos protested. “If nothing else, have you met Athos? It’ll be a point of honor for him to hold still for it without restraints. And besides, how would he explain chafe marks, exactly? We’re trying to be discreet, here.” 

“I packed it just in case, I doubt we’ll need to use it.” Aramis spread his hands in a placating gesture. “He’ll be back soon, decide what part you’ll have in this, if any.”

Porthos considered this carefully. “Not a switch, I think.” His gaze fell on Athos’s sword-belt, and he touched his own belt, which was wider. “This, maybe? It’s more my style.”

“Not a bad idea.” Aramis replied after a moment of thought. “It would be a nice contrast. I’m going to play this by ear, just so we’re both clear on that. I might make a mistake. Do me a favor, keep an eye on Athos and keep an eye on me; if either of us gets carried away, stop us immediately. I don’t want to risk injuring him any more than a schoolboy whipping would, but I’ve never done this before either. He’s my friend, I don’t want to hurt him any more than he wants to be hurt.”

“We get hurt regularly, you know? Swords, fire, even bullets sometimes. How is this any different?” Porthos asked, not for the first time. He was still wrapping his mind around the idea that Athos wanted to be hurt rather more than they wanted to hurt him. 

“It just is. I don’t know how to explain it.” Aramis would have tried to explain further, but they could both hear the sound of someone walking through the brush, back towards the hut, and the conversation was cut short. They both turned to face the door, both taking care to look as stern and intimidating as they could. 

Athos came in and stopped in the doorway, blinking as he moved from the bright sunshine outside to the dim interior. 

“Well?” Aramis held out a hand. Athos handed him the branches he’d picked. All were quite perfect: green enough to be whippy, slightly thinner than a finger, and cleaned of all buds and twigs. Aramis studied them and nodded. “Not bad, boy. You still remember how to prepare a switch for yourself. But you did take your sweet time about it, that’ll cost you.” He gave Athos a cold look. “Strip. Neatly.” 

As he slowly removed his clothes, undoing ties with trembling fingers, Athos thought that he’d never even imagined how incredibly arousing it could be, to stand naked in front of others who were clothed. It made him feel vulnerable, even a little afraid, but he told himself over and over that he was perfectly safe here, with his two best friends, and it was no danger to be vulnerable in front of them. By the time he stood before them in only his linen shirt, with the tails hanging down to the middle of his thigh, he was almost not terrified. 

“Was I unclear?” Aramis pushed away from the table he’d been leaning against and stalked towards Athos. “I. Said. Strip.” He closed the distance faster than Athos could react, fisted a hand in Athos’ hair and pulled hard, jerking his head to the side. “Strip, that means naked, you idiot boy. You’re making it worse for yourself with every display of defiance. Now, _move_.” He pushed Athos away, sending him stumbling a few steps.

Athos regained his balance physically, but his heart was pounding, his face flushed in humiliation as he pulled the shirt over his head in one rough tug. This revealed his rampant erection, which hadn’t showed any sign of wilting throughout his little trek in the forest. Aramis looked at it with open hunger, and licked his lips. He studied Athos for a long moment, his eyes tracing the familiar lines of his chest, his legs, and yes, his member, now parallel to the floor. Like all of them, Athos bore the scars of half a lifetime of sword-work, thin lines of slashes and nicks scattered over his torso, and those were familiar as well. The expression, however, was new- a naked vulnerability, a flush that spread red to the middle of his chest, even a hint of fear. Good. 

“Better,” Aramis nodded shortly. “Now, before we even get to the real punishment, there’s the price you’ll pay for being too slow just now, and earlier when we sent you our. Bend over that chair.” He indicated one of the wooden chairs. “Hold your position. If you move, you’ll pay.”

Obediently, Athos bent over the back of the chair and rested his arms on the seat. Aramis took a moment just to look at his upturned rear, smooth pale skin he was about to unleash hell upon. There was a faint scar here, too, pale across one cheek, and he made a mental note to ask about it sometime, maybe. Then he raised his hand and brought it down hard , just on that scar. Athos flinched, but didn’t rise, and was ready for the second slap when it came- he didn’t even flinch at that one, nor at the one after it. Aramis put his full strength behind every blow, took his time, and covered up and down and across Athos’ ass with the same dedication he usually saved for cleaning his guns. Slowly, the pale skin started glowing a faint pink. Athos made no sound, not even a gasp, and didn’t move after that first twitch. 

Porthos was fidgeting impatiently by the time Aramis finally stopped, and visibly relaxed when Aramis rested an open palm on Athos’ shoulder, stroking it absent-mindedly. 

“There. That covers your slowness and defiance earlier.” He walked around to look at Athos’ face. His eyes seemed a little glazed, his breath coming faster than usual, but there was no sign of tears yet- not that Aramis had expected any. “Stand.” when Athos did, it became clear that his interest hadn’t flagged at all at the spanking. If anything, he was harder than before, the tip of his cock glistening with moisture. “You could come just from this, couldn’t you?” Aramis broke character for a moment, both curious and aroused by how clearly turned on Athos was. His friend’s face was redder than his rear when he nodded quickly. “Would you like to come, then?”

Athos thought, frowning for a moment, then shook his head once. He had to swallow hard to speak. “Not yet.” A strained whisper, but clear enough. 

Aramis’ arm flashed out and gripped the back of his neck, hard, forcing him back down over the chair. “‘Not yet’ _what_ , you insolent wretch?” He shook Athos as one would a naughty child caught stealing from the cookie jar. “Answer me!”

“N-not yet, Sir.” He’d never heard Athos’ voice waver like that, and the sound sent a hot wave of arousal down Aramis’ spine. He shifted, trying to ease the pressure of breeches against his groin, without much success. Time for a more hands-off approach, then. 

“Good boy. You learn quickly, at least. Porthos?”

“Yes?” Porthos, who’d been watching in silence, was quite intrigued by the changes in his friends- both Athos’ vulnerability and Aramis’ sudden dominance. He liked it, but wasn’t quite sure where he fit in, in this new power structure. 

“Could you take over for a while? Warm him up a bit, tenderize him for me.” Aramis indicated the sword belt. The two of them then proceeded to have a silent conversation, through minute nods, wriggling fingers and tiny shrugs, that amounted to _’Wait, how many do I give him?’ ‘Go with whatever feels right”, ‘None of this feels right, Aramis’, ‘Then I’ll let you know when to stop.’_ With that issue sorted, Porthos unbuckled his belt and slid a selection of pouches- and his sword- off it. 

He then stroked Athos’ hair with his left hand slowly, drawing down from his head, over his neck and down to the middle of his back, and left his hand there, just in case Athos had any ideas about getting up. He felt the muscles relax under his palm, raised the belt high with his right hand, and brought it down, not with his full strength but reasonably hard. Athos jerked and gasped, more in surprise than in pain, Porthos thought, and tried to twist around to see what Porthos was using. 

“Stay still.” Porthos warned, pushing down slightly with his left hand, and Athos subsided. “I’ve only just started.” 

He continued, slowly and carefully, and tried not to let the belt land in the same spot twice. It was almost three inches wide, though, and soon the strokes overlapped, drawing wide stripes of dark pink on the already-warmed skin. For the four or five strokes after the first one, Athos kept silent. After that, there were occasional hisses of sharply indrawn breaths, not with every stroke, but often enough that Porthos knew he was feeling it. He counted out thirty strokes before Aramis motioned for him to stop. 

“Now that you’re warmed up- and you are, I’m sure you’ve noticed- we can get on with things.” Aramis ran a hand over Athos’ rear, rubbed the heated skin. He was only a little surprised when Athos leaned back into it, even though it must’ve hurt. “Unless you’ve had enough? You know what you need to say.” Answered by a firm headshake, Aramis continued. “Yes, one little whipping is hardly enough for a boy as naughty as you’ve been, is it? And you did cut those lovely switches. Spread your legs a bit.” He nudged Athos’ shin with the toe of his boot. “No more help staying down- if you rise, that’ll be extra.” He took up the first switch and slashed it through the air a few times, satisfied with the whistling noise it produced. “This is going to hurt you so much more than it hurts me.” 

He aimed the switch low across Athos’ ass, and it landed with a gratifying ‘thwack’, followed immediately by a grunt of pain from Athos himself. Good. Aramis gave him six cuts of the switch, and this time Athos made no real attempt to stay silent, gasping and hissing as the switch fell. Then, Aramis decided to speed things up a bit- and landed the next stroke across Athos’ unmarked thighs. Athos reared up with a startled, pained cry and turned to glare at Aramis. 

“What’d you do that for?” He sounded so plaintive that Aramis almost laughed. Instead, he glared right back, and with his free hand slapped Athos across the face. It was an open-hand slap, left-handed and not even hard enough to bruise, but it was so unexpected that even Porthos gasped.

“Who told you that you could stand, boy? Or speak? Get back over that chair, you just earned yourself extra strokes. Get. Down.” Aramis sounded cold as ice to his own ears, and normally he’d hate doing this to anybody, but Athos had wanted to be treated like a boy or a commoner, and this was how it went. Looking down, he noticed that Athos was still, despite it all, hard and ready. “Or have you had enough?”

Athos stared at him, looking hurt and confused and lost, for a long moment before he seemed to brace himself and lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sir.” He obediently bent over the back of the chair again. “Y-you startled me Sir.” There was a distinct quaver in his voice. 

“You don’t get to dictate how your punishment goes, boy. That’s for us to decide.” Aramis reminded him. “Now hold your position.” He glanced a Porthos, who returned a somewhat wild-eyed look. The slap had brought back some vivid memories of the less pleasant parts of his childhood, and Porthos swallowed hard and reminded himself that this was nothing like the casual violence and petty cruelties he’d had to face as a street urchin, but something controlled, planned for, and most importantly, desired by its recipient. For a long moment Porthos held Aramis’ gaze, and then released a long breath and nodded. Only then did Aramis continue. 

He continued to focus on Athos’ thighs, decorating him with long red weals almost down to his knees. Some trial-and-error strokes showed him that careful aim could land the switch across the sensitive skin on the inside of Athos’ thighs, which gave him the first true cry of pain from his lover. By the time the first switch broke, it sounded like Athos was quite close to breaking as well, his breath coming in ragged gasps that were almost sobs. Porthos moved from his spot by the wall and crossed over to Aramis’ side as the remains of the switch were tossed aside and Aramis turned to select a new one. 

“A word in your ear, Aramis?” Porthos said quietly, and continued in a whisper without waiting for permission, “I think we should stop. I’ve never seen him like this, Aramis, he’s almost _crying_.” Never, in all the years they’d been Musketeers together, had either of them seen Athos cry. 

“If he’s only _almost_ crying, then we’re not done yet.” Aramis replied, whispering as well. “But I think we’re quite close. He hasn’t let go his self control yet, but he will, soon enough.I want to see if he’ll tell us when to stop- if not, then I’ll stop after the next part of his punishment. I don’t want to risk injuring him.” He’d managed to avoid cutting Ahos with the switch so far, but wasn’t sure he could continue to avoid it, as the strokes crossed over previous marks. “Soon, Porthos. And I’ll need your help for this part.” He shared the rest of his plan quietly, glancing at Athos as he did; it didn’t look like Athos was interested in rising chair  
anytime soon. “Alright?”

“If you’re sure…” Porthos nodded, but reluctantly. “If you think this will be the last of it.”

“I think so, yes.” Aramis repeated. “Could you get the saddle blanket please?” Leaning over the chair like that was probably getting quite uncomfortable, and besides, he thought they needed both more space and a better angle, and the table would provide both. Porthos gave him a questioning look, and Aramis shrugged. “Moving to the table, and it’s not the smoothest wood. And besides, we might want to use it to eat on, later.” 

Porthos snickered and headed for the stable, and Aramis went to check on Athos. His friend’s eyes were closed tightly, his face flushed and his jaw clenched, but his breathing was steadier, at least. He threaded his fingers through the sweat-damp hair at the nape of Athos’ neck, rubbing gently, and waited, silent, until Porthos came back in and spread the saddle blanket over the table. Then, Aramis gripped the back of Athos’ neck and pulled him up. 

“Over here, boy. I think we’re almost done, don’t you? The rest of your wickedness can wait for the next time.” He wasn’t at all sure there’d be a next time; he was enjoying this, but he wasn’t sure Athos would want to do this again, and even less sure that Porthos would agree. There was no response from Athos, so Aramis maneuvered him over to the table and bent him over it, allowing his cock to be trapped between the blanket and his body, to give him the friction he hadn’t had before. “Let’s get on with it, then.” 

Porthos took up the belt again, and Aramis selected a second switch. “Hold on tight, boy, same as before.” 

Athos held on tightly to the edge of the table, as Aramis and Porthos started alternating strokes, standing on both sides of him. The belt snapped down, and the switch whistled after it, up and down at a steady, relentless pace. By the time Aramis silently counted off ten pairs of strokes, Athos was sobbing quietly, slow tears trailing down his face and soaking into the blanket. Porthos faltered, but Aramis motioned for him to continue. Four more strokes of switch and belt landed, each accompanied by a low sound of pain, and then Athos surprised them all by pushing up and away from the table.

“P-please-” He turned blindly towards Aramis, “P-lease, I have to- Please-” He grabbed Aramis’ free hand and drew it down towards his straining, weeping member. Aramis wrapped his palm around the hot, hard organ, slicked enough with sweat and pre-come that there was no need for further lubrication. He slid his hand down the shaft once, twice, and Athos exploded in his hand with a shout. Porthos caught him from behind, bringing them both gently to the floor, where Athos curled into Porthos’ side, still sobbing. Aramis dropped the switch and sank down next to them, with one arm around Porthos’ shoulders and one around Athos’, in an embrace that encircled them both. 

It took Athos a while to regain something like control, and the other two didn’t try to hurry the process along. Finally, his sobs slowed and turned into shuddering breath that slowly steadied out. He shifted, and the others relaxed their hold on him and allowed him to turn around. First, Athos kissed Porthos, as he was closest, long and hard. 

“Thank you.” He whispered when they broke apart. “That was...Thank you.” He turned towards Aramis, “Both of you.” 

Aramis tilted his head, although he allowed himself a small smile. “Don’t thank me yet, my friend.” He gave Athos a moment to look confused before explaining, “You never said ‘Paris’, and you broke your position. So, technically, we’re not done yet.” 

“ _Aramis_!” Porthos pushed back and dragged Athos along with him, pulling him away from Aramis, “You _can’t_ be serious.” 

“Oh, I am. But it’s up to Athos. You could say it now, and we’ll be done. Or you can have a little break, and then we deal with your punishment for standing without permission.” He looked at Athos steadily, waiting. Athos looked down, and was silent, thoughtful, for a long moment. Finally he raised his head and licked his lips quickly before he spoke. 

“How many?”

“Athos, no!”

“His choice, Porthos. Ten, and we’re done.” Aramis replied. “We don’t have to. You can call it off right now, and we’ll go cool your ass down in the nearest pond. Up to you.”

There was another long moment of silence before Athos sighed. “I’d rather take it and be done. It- it’d feel wrong to leave that one thing hanging over my head.” 

Aramis nodded, again with a small smile. “If you’re sure. We’ll give you a few minutes, though.”

“ _Are_ you sure, Athos?” Porthos asked, worried. He kept his arms around Athos, who made no move to free himself. Seeing this, Aramis rose to rummage in their bags, and came up with a handkerchief that was mostly clean, and two leather flasks. He handed the handkerchief and the flask which held watered wine to Athos, and the flask which held something a great deal stronger to Porthos. They both deserved a stiff drink, but he figured that Porthos deserved it more. Athos wiped his face briskly and drained half the flask before replying.

“I’m sure. It won’t be so bad, Porthos.” He rested his head on Porthos’ shoulder, and Aramis thought that he’d never seen Athos this relaxed, pliant and languid- and equally, that he’d never seen Porthos this tense, outside of combat. That would need to be taken care of, later. For now, Aramis kept busy by cleaning up the puddle of come from the floor, and by finding his own flask and taking a long pull from it, letting the liquor warm his insides. After a quarter of an hour or so, he offered Athos his hand to help him stand.

“Come on, let’s finish this.” Athos reached up and allowed Aramis to pull him to his feet, wincing as he moved. When Athos turned to drape himself over the desk again, Aramis surveyed the damage to his backside and pursed his lips. The skin wasn’t broken, but it was still a solid red, now fading to pink and mottled here and there with stripes and patches would soon become bruises, from the top of Athos’ ass down his thighs. It would probably take a few days to heal fully, maybe as long as a week, but not longer, and no lasting damage had been done. Aramis spread both hands on Athos’s ass, rubbing carefully, and Athos sighed, half pained, half blissful. “D’you know why you deserve this, Athos?”

“Because I stood up without permission.” Came the prompt reply, as Aramis smoothed his hands down Athos’ thighs, rubbing his thumb over a long welt, feeling the heat radiating from the skin. 

“No,” Aramis paused, “Well, partly. Are you ready?” Athos nodded and the long muscles in his thighs clenched under Aramis’ hands. Instead of picking up the switch, Aramis used his bare hand again, and not nearly as hard as he had before; a half-strength slap on the already damaged skin was quite enough to make Athos gasp and writhe in pain. “You deserve this, not because of any sins or crimes you think you’ve committed, but because it makes you happy. And you deserve to be happy, do you understand? We’re just glad we could help you with it. Even Porthos is happy, he just doesn’t know it yet.” He winked at Porthos, who scowled at him but without any real anger. 

“I-” Athos stopped talking as soon as he’d started, since Aramis slapped his rear again, “Thank you.” He said simply, and rested his head on his folded arms. Again, Aramis took his time rubbing and caressing Athos’ rear, and continued to rain fairly light, stinging smacks and alternate them with long pauses given to stroking and rubbing the hot mounds. In all, Aramis estimated that it took him a full five minutes to finish the promised set of ten, and by the time he was done, Athos was shifting and straining, and not just in pain. 

“And, we’re done.” Aramis stated with a flourish, and on a whim dropped a kiss on Athos’ lefy ass cheek, making him gasp. “Shall we take this to the bedroom?”

“Yes, let’s.” Porthos had somehow managed to lose most of his clothing while Aramis had been otherwise occupied, and now gave him a mock-glare. “You’re overdressed.” 

“I am, aren’t I? Up you get, Athos. Over and done with. For now. But Porthos’ lady friend said we can use the lodge any time we like, if you want to do this again.” 

“I don’t know how I can thank you.” Athos wiped his eyes, but he was grinning, as happy as they’d ever seen him- and half-hard again. 

“Don’t thank us yet.” Porthos chuckled, and Athos drew back, looking a little worried. “Oh, no, we’re done with that part, I think.” He pulled Athos to him and reached for Aramis with his other hand. “But tomorrow, you’re riding back into Paris.” He patted Athos’ rear, making him wince, “On that.”

“Oh. Shit.” Athos reached back ruefully to rub his ass, grimacing, “Maybe...I’ll walk.”


End file.
